The Beast Arises

‘Tell the commodore to have his captains form a line of battle behind us,’ Bohemond commanded. ‘His ships may fire as they bear. We shall take them through the greenskin armada, where we will need the big guns of his capital ships to support the Abhorrence in cracking that abominate moon open. Meanwhile, the Black Templars shall bring havoc to the xenos wretches hiding within.’

‘Relaying now, marshal,’ Clermont said.

‘Frater Astrotechnicus,’ Bohemond called. Techmarine Kant was standing amongst a nest of bondsmen and bridge servitors, monitoring the enginarium rune banks.

‘Yes, marshal,’ Kant replied without moving his stapled lips. His voice boomed from vox-hailers set in the sides of his muscular neck.

‘Forward void shields powered to full,’ Bohemond growled. ‘Nothing gets through, Brother Kant.’

‘Affirmative, Marshal.’

Bohemond jabbed a vox-stub in the arm of his pulpit-throne with a ceramite digit. ‘Captain Ulbricht, this is the marshal. You are authorised to board Thunderhawks and assault ships in preparation for void insertion. I will join you on the final approach.’

‘I would expect nothing less, marshal,’ Ulbricht voxed back from the launch bays. ‘As the xenos will recieve nothing less than annihilation, ardent and absolute.’

‘Very good, captain,’ Bohemond said. ‘Stand by for the order to launch. Accelerate to ramming speed,’ the marshal added to his bridge crew as the Abhorrence plunged towards the enemy ship swarm. Both Space Marine and bondsman felt the sudden change in velocity shudder through the decking as the battle-barge’s mighty drives pushed them onwards into the oncoming greenskin barrage.

‘Crusader cruisers and frigates accelerating in line with new speed and heading,’ a bridge bondsman announced.

‘Marshal,’ Clermont called. ‘We appear to have a problem.’

‘Report.’

‘We’ve lost vox-contact with the commodore’s flagship.’

‘Lost contact?’ Bohemond rumbled. ‘Is the Magnificat under attack?’

‘The battleship is yet to engage,’ Clermont said.

‘Kant?’

‘Nothing on augurstream or binary frequencies,’ the Techmarine reported with metallic reverb. ‘The Navy vessels are slowing, marshal.’

‘The Preservatorio? The Falchiax? The Thunderfall?’

‘Static, my lord,’ the castellan said.

‘Try the destroyers and the heavy escorts,’ the marshal barked. ‘What the hell is he doing?’

‘Only the cruiser Aquillon is keeping pace with our approach, marshal,’ Clermont reported after failing to contact the smaller commands. ‘Captain Grenfell, my lord.’

‘Kant — could this be the xenos? Their technology overwhelming our communications?’

‘Arrays and transmitters are returning both trace waves and background radiation,’ the Techmarine returned. ‘Vox-transmissions between the battle-barge and crusader vessels are unaffected.’

‘My lord.’ The barbican bondsman who had been stationed by the bridge doors presented himself, pulling back his hood.

‘What is it?’

‘I realise that it’s irregular, marshal,’ the bondsman said, ‘but the battle-barge astropath craves a moment of your time. He asks for permission to enter the command deck.’

‘Does he not know we are about to enter into battle?’ Bohemond seethed. The Black Templar was furious enough with Commodore DePrasse. A detested audience with one of the only psykerbreeds allowed on board the ship would probably drive the marshal over the edge.

‘I would ordinarily forbid it, my lord,’ the bondsman said, not wishing to attract the Marshal’s ire. ‘But he insisted it was important. Something about the communications issue.’

Bohemond looked from the bondsman to Clermont, then from the castellan to Chaplain Aldemar. The Chaplain nodded slowly and solemnly.

‘Admit him,’ the marshal said.

‘Master Izericor,’ the barbican bondsman announced.

Izericor shuffled onto the bridge, his staff tapping before him across the unfamiliar command deck. He bowed and drew back his hood. Blinders, like those found on livestock, partially hid the ragged holes where the astropath’s eyes used to be.

‘You have intelligence for me?’ Bohemond snarled.

‘I have just intercepted a message, my lord,’ Izericor said with deferent enthusiasm. ‘A communiqué of such import that I risk your displeasure, marshal.’

‘Speak,’ Bohemond said with difficulty. ‘What know you of our communication difficulties?’

‘Commodore DePrasse has just received new orders from Terra, my lord,’ the psyker said. ‘Commandments that supersede your own.’

‘What new orders?’ Castellan Clermont demanded.

‘The commodore is ordered to take his flotilla to a Navy rendezvous point in the Glaucasian Gulf, as soon as possible.’

‘Whose authority is carried by this communiqué?’ Bohemond asked.

‘The message bears the telesignature of Teegas Urelia, astrotelepath to Lord High Admiral Lansung himself.’

‘They’re playing for time,’ Clermont said. ‘They don’t know what to do for the best: disobey an order or offend the Adeptus Astartes.’

Marshal Bohemond suddenly took to his feet, prompting even the blind Izericor to step back.